


Anything Less Than a Tank

by sheafrotherdon



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Comedy, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-19
Updated: 2010-12-19
Packaged: 2017-10-13 19:03:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/140628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheafrotherdon/pseuds/sheafrotherdon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Danny, a bottle of ibuprofen, and a sandwich run.  Pre-slash.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anything Less Than a Tank

Danny's already at his desk by the time Steve makes it to the headquarters.

"You know what I did this morning?" Danny asks, looking up from his paperwork as Steve walks in.

Steve slows a little, suddenly wary. That's Danny's _you're a fucking idiot_ voice, and right now he can't think of what he did to earn it. He schools his face into an expression of faint interest and shakes his head.

"I did yoga," Danny offers, spreading his hands. "Yoga. I voluntarily, in my own home, did yoga."

Steve tilts his head to better absorb that piece of information. "You know yoga?"

"Not actually the point," Danny offers, almost smiling, his eyes slightly wild. "The point is, my friend, that I was doing _yoga_ so that I could loosen my shoulders and thereby raise my arms high enough to open the medicine cabinet and _find the ibuprofen_."

This, Steve thinks, is going to turn out to be his fault. "You – " He considers the methods of injury most likely to occur in Danny's apartment and then further considers which of those could happen to Danny, who's unlikely to get into a knife fight while watching HGTV.

Unlike Steve.

"Did you fall out of bed?" he asks.

Danny grinds his teeth, makes fists with his hands and shakes them for just a second. "Did I - you Pleistocene throwback, I _swear to god_ , you were beamed here, _just to fuck with me_. No! No, I did not fall out of bed, I simply traveled, with you, in a _car_. Yesterday!"

Steve offers his sympathetic face. "Shook up a little?"

Danny gapes at him, stands up and starts pacing back and forth, four steps in one direction, four steps in the other, gesturing in lieu of saying anything for just a moment. "Let's review," he says, eventually, coming to a halt. "You," he points, "pursue criminals, " he shifts his hands, presumably to indicate that Steve and the criminals are not the same person – Steve will take that as a win. "You drive _my car_ across terrain that was not intended to be covered _in anything less than a tank_. We careen _twenty feet down a hill_ , bottom out, head _back up the other side_ using, oh! That's right. _The momentum we had accumulated thus far_ , then drive _the wrong way down a mountain road_ without due consideration for obstacles like, say, oh, rocks, or small tree branches, or other cars, or road blocks, or human beings. And when you finally _corner_ said criminals, you do so by _ramming them with my car_ and I am required to get out, pull my gun, threaten people with bodily harm, cuff people, _write up the report_ , all without having opportunity to comment on the broken, crapped out, fucked up condition of my car _or my body_ , never mind pointing out that you are _a walking jackass_."

"They're fixing your car," Steve offers hopefully.

"THAT IS NOT THE POINT," Danny yells.

Steve suspected as much.

"The point," Danny continues, "is that when I woke up this morning I could barely move, and was forced – when I managed to get out of bed, and let me tell you, drop and roll is not a tactic that should be required so that the day can _begin_ – to do _yoga_ , in my shorts, right there in my own hallway, where anyone with a disregard for due process and the proper use of search warrants could bust in and see me, ass in the air, all so that I could take the ibuprofen I needed to be able to come down here, hunt you down, and kill you. Later. _When I can lift my arms to aim my gun_."

Steve ducks his head and chews on his lip while he thinks of what to say. Explaining his rationale for pursuit would probably be the wrong choice. Outlining his feelings on the optional nature of working suspension systems, likewise. He doubts Danny wants to hear about the mental conditioning that allows a person to ignore whiplash because being dropped into forty-five degree water from a plane hurts worse. He'd offer a massage, but that could get weird. The only thing he has left is to articulate that he genuinely, fuck, just . . . "I'm sorry," he manages.

Danny visibly deflates, and sinks back into his chair. "Thank you," he says quietly. "I know that had to be hard. I recognize that you probably had to mine uncharted depths to come up with those words. I'm grateful for the effort."

Steve rockets from chagrin to joy in a nanosecond, smiles, can't help himself, because Danny's no longer yelling at him and he said what he meant and no one died. "You need more? Ibuprofen. I can get you some." Helping. Helping is good.

"I need," Danny says, resting his forearms on his desk, looking a little ragged, "some coffee and a sandwich. And I'm doing all the driving today."

Steve grins. Doable. Those are all doable things. "Okay."

"Okay?" Danny asks.

"Okay." Steve heads for the door. "Mayo?"

"All the mayo in the world," Danny sighs, and Steve ducks his head again, the better to distract himself from the fact that he's totally fucked to be this happy about the ibuprofen in the locker room and the chance to make a sandwich run, and maybe, just a little, about Danny too.


End file.
